This Is The Story You Wanted To Write
by Glimmer Conlon O'Leary
Summary: This is the story you wanted to write; well tonight, here's the night that you can. Just get this done, and by dawn's early light, you can finish the fight you began. This time, we're in it to stay.
1. Racetrack

Good God, it was early. Do you understand how early 6:15 is? And I mean 6:15 in the _morning_. That's way too goddamn early.

It was also way too early for that scab Snipeshooter to be stealing my cigar. Where does the kid get off?

"You'll steal another," he shot back when I snidely informed him of who owned the cigar he held in his mouth. 

"Hey!" I exclaimed angrily, swatting him like the little bug he was. Kid pulled me away, caroling on about having work to do. 

But I did get my cigar back.

The washroom was, as usual, devoid of any elbowroom, so Mush and I were squeezed together on one side of the sinks while Jack and Crutchy shared the other.

Crutchy, worried about the 'fake crips on the streets' asked us all where he should sell. Not wanting to give away my prime spot, the tracks, I told him to go to Central Park. He'd have good selling there—that is to say, good selling unless a regular decided he was unworthy of sharing the Park. 

Spot hogs.

As we all poured out onto the streets, yelling and laughing, the sun hit me squarely in the face. I blinked rapidly, my gut telling me that by the end of the day, it was going to be hot as all get out. I hate summer. Hate winter more. 

I hate weather.

As we stood in line at Newspaper Row, we were, how do you say, _graced_ with the presence of two of the most hotheaded bastards in the whole of New York City. And let me tell you, there are a whole slew of hotheaded bastards in the City, so the Delancey brothers were making quite the impressive accomplishment. 

Now, when they pushed Snipes to the ground, I can't exactly say I was all that angry or anything. I mean, the kid slobbered all over by last cigar. Granted, he was right—I stole another (or two) at the tracks. But that's irrelevant—he still got his _spit _all over my cigar!

But either way, Snipes is small, and Oscar isn't exactly tiny, so that was pretty low. As Jack helped him up, the quick, smooth delivery of his quip made us all snigger, smirking.

"Hey, hey, five-to-one the Cowboy skunks 'em ah? Who's bettin'?" I couldn't resist. Call it the gambler in me. 

"Nahh, bum odds." 

Damn scabs always said that. 

I only snapped back to attention as Jack whipped the hat off Oscar's head and ran. As he sprinted gleefully around the Square, I saw him ram into some scab kid with a cute little brother. Now that kid's face would sell papes. 

After all the drama had drawn to a climatic end, and I had thoroughly congratulated Jack on his victory, we moved in to buy our papes. 

As my turn arrived, an idea came to me. No paying, not today. Call it the gambler in me, but scamming Weasel is always fun.

As I lit up my slightly slobbery cigar, I muttered, "Hey your honor, do me a favor will ya? Spot me fifty papes." As my plan took shape, I smiled inwardly. "I got a hot tip in the fourth, you won't waste your money." Call it the gambler in me, but I even took bets for Weasel, much as I hated him. 

Placing a bet is exciting in itself, and it gave me a rush I never had when doing anything else. 

The asshole had to remind me of last time, where I lost him his money—and my own—but in the end, the papes were mine, no charge.

Weasel is such a naïve bastard.

Technically, I did have a hot tip. But it was in the fifth. Weasel didn't have to know that. Call it the gambler in me, but I didn't always feel the need to be honest. And he would never know.

Like I said, naïve bastard. 

But anyway, I sat down next to Jack with my papes, scanning the headlines to see if I could actually use them today. The front-page headline sucked, but who uses those anyway? Call it the gambler in me, but I like headlines that are sure to win you a sell.

"Baby born with two heads. Must be from Brooklyn." I murmured, and I could have sworn I felt my dead mother slap me upside the head. Born and bred in Brooklyn, she was. 

As Jack snickered, the cute kid approached, leaving his older brother behind. Jack asked him to sit, but before he could, Weasel was yelling again.

I wasn't really paying attention; the bottom of page nine had just caught my eye: it was quite the fixer-upper, but it could work…with the right finesse. 

Next thing I knew, Jack was asking me to spot him two bits. As I flipped the quarter up to him, I vaguely realized that two bits would have bought my fifty papes.

Smiling to myself, I knew that Weasel was too dumb to notice. 

Idiot. That's why he got fired.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

So, after Jack had struck up a deal with the new kid, Dave, we all went about our business.

Specs improved an already decent headline, yelling that the baby had three heads, not two.

Smart kid.

I made my way to the tracks, selling lightly along the way.  Had my regular customers at the races, I did, and they needed their papes too.

As I approached the track, the pounding of horses' hooves on the ground greeted my ears, sweet as the sound of birds in the country. 

Not that I know what birds in the country sound like or anything, but I hear it's good.

Anyway.

Ah, the yells of the spectators, the horses' running feet, the vendors, the lone newsboy in the distance already calling out headlines—wait. 

Some kid was scamming on _my_ spot.

Call me a hypocrite, but I'm a spot hog too, you know. And nobody, and I mean _nobody,_ scams on _my_ spot at the tracks.

As I approached the kid, I noticed he looked small, kind of petite. 

As I neared him, I halted.

Oh, _hell_ no.

A _newsgirl_, no less, was scamming my spot.

Damn, now I couldn't even skunk the scab. And call it the gambler in me, but I get pretty competitive about kids who think they can sell better than I in my own spot.

She wasn't even cute; hell, I'm way cuter, and I don't consider myself all that attractive.

She had short, tangled light brown hair, a pale face and big watery brown eyes. Her thin lips stretched as she called out unimproved headlines in her squeaky, weak voice unfit for a newsy.

I rolled my eyes as I walked by, and she gazed at me.

I sold my papes quickly, and noticed that she still held hers in her hand. _Serves her right_, I thought maliciously. 

But as I walked away, I felt kind of sorry for the girl. I mean, she couldn't help it that the people at the tracks knew me as 'their' newsy, and not her.

Call it the gambler in them, but they get hooked on things (gambling for instance) and they don't want to let go. They had come to familiarize _me_ with the buying of papes, not her. So they came to me, not her.

Wasn't her fault, not really.

Except for she had scammed on my spot at the tracks.

Anyway, it wasn't important.

I didn't help her; I didn't talk to her. And it didn't really matter.

I lost my money on the so-called 'hot tip'. 

I should learn one of these days: I never win at the tracks. 

I'm addicted, what can I say, call it the gambler in me.

I headed back to the Lodging-house that night as the sky darkened. As I approached, I spotted Jack leaning on the pole of a streetlight. 

He snapped himself out of his reverie and looked at me.

"Heya Race," he murmured as he walked next to me.

"Heya Jack," I said softy, as way of reply.

"So how was your day at the track?" He asked, still speaking in that same soft, dreamy, almost sad way.

"Remember that hot tip I told ya about?" He muttered his recollection. "Nobody told the horse."

He laughed softly and we signed in with Kloppman, both of us strangely quiet.

I was still thinking about that girl, and how maybe, she was like me a few years back—when I was new, and small(er) and I didn't know anything about being a newsy. And yet I had people to teach me, people who gave me the knowledge they had, and in return, I found my own spot.

I grinned as Jack and I ascended the stairs to the bunkroom. Jack was going on about being chased by Snyder, a big deal in itself, and then moved on to dinner at Dave's house—dinner and his 'beautiful' sister.  

But I was grinning not about the way Jack, clearly taken with the girl, Sarah, was describing her every move; I was grinning because I had decided to help the newsgirl learn the ropes.

And in exchange, she would use her newfound talent as a newsy and clear off the tracks. Call it the gambler in me, but I like deals that get me what I want. 

But the next day, my plans were devilishly thwarted by news that hit us like hail in the face as soon as our feet reached Newspaper Row. 

Pulitzer is gonna burn, I swear it.

**_{EndNotes}_**

So, what do you think? You like Race, and his constant phrase "Call it the gambler in me…"? Should I continue on with this? 

Now, who to go next?

Review me please!!!

Disclaimer: "Newsies" is not mine, it is Disney's and any and all of these characters belong solely to Disney/themselves. Any OC's are mine. Gracias. 


	2. Specs

Ohhhhhhhhhhhh anger. 

Anger of the greatest caliber, I swear to you. I don't know what is going on here, but I plan to find out. Quietly, of course. Quietly is how I do things. Quietly is what is expected of me. I mean, look at me. Brown curls, brown eyes, glasses. This look automatically gives people the impression that I'm a bookworm, and that quiet is what I do best.

And I am. And it is. 

But that doesn't mean that I don't have a curiosity fit to match Mush's, or that I didn't feel anger as indignant as Blink's was when he shouted, "They jacked up the price! Can you believe that? _Ten_ cents a hundred! You know, it's bad enough that we gotta _eat_ what we don't sell! Now they jacked up the price! Can you believe that?!" 

It also doesn't mean that I didn't feel like asking the same burning question that Mush did, "It don't make no sense. With all the money Pulitzer's making, why would he gouge us?"

It also doesn't mean that I wasn't feeling as bitter as Racetrack when he muttered, "Cause he's a tightwad, that's why." 

Just because I don't say these things doesn't mean that I don't feel them. No one seems to understand that. Well, almost no one. 

While Jack, David, and Boots were trekking themselves to Brooklyn to deal with the possible wrath of Spot Conlon, I had been sent, along with Bumlets and Skittery, to Queens.

I could handle that. Queens was…well; they weren't the rough, tough nasty boys you get in Brooklyn. They also weren't the type that flock to Harlem. They're Blink's type of people, passionate and outspoken. The Bronx, where Crutchy volunteered to go, puts on a tough Brooklyn-like facade, but really, they're usually pretty nice guys. 

Queens is a strange place, let me tell you. They have more female newsies there than anywhere in the City, including Midtown, which has a few. I'm thinking that it may be the name that draws them to Queens, the girls. They also have a Lodging-house, but while ours is strictly boys only; theirs has girls on the first floor, beyond the lobby, and boys upstairs. The boys live in pretty close quarters with the girls, and as a result, are usually a little mellower than the boys you would normally meet.

So as we were walking, Skittery led the conversation in that voice of his—soft, calm and level. He always seems to be sensible, never letting himself get excited or angry. He gives off the impression of a person incapable of emotion, but when you ask him about his girl…well, just don't. He goes on for years. But his brown eyes, usually so serene, light up, and his smile is nearly blinding. That kid has a spectacular smile; when he lets you see it, at least.

Anyway, we were walking to Queens, which is no stroll, those thirteen miles, and Skittery was talking about, you guessed it, his girl. Now, granted, she is downright beautiful. Elizabeth is one of those rare gems that you find amongst the rubble of the shops the girls work in. Light brown hair, long and shining, light brown eyes, full lips, high cheekbones…Skittery is one lucky young man to have snagged such a jewel.

"And so I handed her the rose, and she smiled one of those smiles—ya know, the ones ya can't describe 'cause they're so great?" He was beaming. I felt like saying _'yeah Skittery, I know that kind of smile. It's the kind you have right now.' _

But I didn't say anything. I just smiled and concentrated on walking in the right direction. Bumlets gave me a sideways glance and a little smile. I furrowed my eyebrows at him, not entirely comprehensive as to what he was trying to convey.

"That Specs, huh Skitt?" he said. Skittery looked at him, then jerked his head sideways to look at me. "Look at him. He don't ever say much, but ya can almost see the wheels a-turnin' in that mind a his."

Skittery, who had refocused his eyes on Bumlets, now looked back at me. As his eyes bored into me, searching my face, I felt it grow hot. God, he was so good-looking. _Not the time, Specs_, I thought, somewhat guiltily, I may add.

"Specs is smart. Got a lot goin' on in that brain a his. He just doesn't wanna let anyone in on it."  Skittery spoke in that tone he used for all aspects of life unrelated to Elizabeth, low and confidently composed, without a trace of the accent that most of us had.

"Maybe you two shouldn't talk about me like I'm not in the vicinity," I said casually, my voice also accent-free.

"I don't know what 'vicinity' means, Skitt, but it seems like Specs wants in on our conversation," Bumlets spoke, his 'New Yorker' accent soft, almost eloquent as a result from his creamy, smooth voice. His voice held no animosity, no derision. Bumlets doesn't have it in him to be unpleasant.

I broke out with a tentative smile. I'm sure they could hear the Halleluiah chorus. 

We walked the remaining miles—southwest to the Brooklyn Bridge, a mile or so across that monstrosity, then northwest to Queens—in a comfortable silence occasionally broken by bouts of light, chit-chatty conversation.

We heard through the grapevine that the Queens newsies always ate lunch at the same restaurant, appropriately named Queenie's.

Once we got there, however, our quest had all been for nothing. We should have known, though, should have seen it coming. No borough does anything even remotely drastic and/or risky without the guaranteed backing of Brooklyn. 

We pulled their leaders out of the restaurant and onto the sidewalk just outside.

Major, co-leader of Queens, gave us a half-hearted smile as soon as we'd finished our explanation. He ran a hand through his golden blonde hair, and it shagged into his piercing green eyes. Looking slightly uncomfortable, he ran a strong hand along his defined jaw line, rubbing the golden skin in a hesitating manner.

It was Window, his female counterpart, who answered. Window is as pretty as Major is handsome, which is saying a lot. But they're different as night and day. Where Major is all blonde and green, light and golden, that where Window is dark. Her hair is long and black, plaited into two twin French braids behind her ears. Her eyes, big and doe-like, are black as pitch and sparkling. Her skin is a perfect, unblemished brown, and she's got these hands that are like a pianist's, long and graceful, even if her fingernails are dirty and ragged from nervous biting. The only thing marring her perfection is a long, raised scar on her left cheek. I don't know where she got that scar, and I don't think I'll ever find out.

But she looked right at us, her hands folded calmly in front of her, her skirt swaying in the breeze that blew so sweetly that day. "What about Brooklyn?" She asked, her gruff New York accent not quite matching the engaging pitch of her voice.

It was Skittery who took over while Bumlets and I stood there, not quite knowing what to say. "Jack is talkin' to him now." 

Major smiled. That kid likes to smile. "Well, boys? When you hear ol' Conlon's answer, you let us know."

"But—" Bumlets began. Major, still smiling, looking like a Greek god, interrupted him.

"I'm sorry, fellas. But we," he motioned to himself and Window, "Can't put our newsies in danger of losin' money and their home unless we know we got the backin' of Brooklyn's fist."

So with that, they walked back into Queenie's, still smiling apologetically at us. 

"Well, that was thirteen useless miles," Bumlets commented good-naturedly as we rounded the corner on our way back to the Bridge.

"Damn straight," replied Skittery, squinting into the sun. Oh, that look suited him. Made him look all rugged and manly. _Aaaaand still not the time, idiot,_ I scolded myself. _When _will _be the time, huh?_ I asked myself. I had no answer.

As were approaching the Bridge, we almost ran smack into Dave, Jack, and Boots, who were just now heading out toward Brooklyn. They explained about their meeting with some reporter, Denton. 

"So, what'd they say over in Queens?" Jack asked. I could almost see his subconscious rubbing its hands together in excitement. 

Skittery cleared his throat and threw each of us a look. "Well, all I gotta say is you better hurry to see Spot. 'Cause Queens said they won't be doin' nothin' without…what'd Major say?"  He turned to us.

""Brooklyn's fist," I supplied helpfully. It was about the third time I'd spoken during our little excursion. 

"Yeah. That. So I definitely think you should get down there," Skittery finished. 

Jack nodded as if he'd expected this, but David looked a little indignant. "Well, what? They can't do anything without this Spot Conlon there to help them?"

I looked him straight in the eye. "No, they can't. You're new, David, you don't understand. Brooklyn is like the glue that holds us all together when we get into this type of stuff. We need to know that they're there to save our hides if we need them to." 

Everyone stared at me. I do believe that's the most they've ever heard me say at all at once since I got here when I was seven, nine years ago. 

But David was nodding as if he understood, which I'm sure he did. David is a smart guy; he catches on quickly. 

So we parted ways, and we headed back to Manhattan to hopefully scrounge up enough money to buy a decent lunch.

Skittery was looking at me out of the corner of his eye as we walked, I saw. "What?" I asked after somewhere around the neighborhood of five minutes of this.

"So where'd that little speech come from, huh Specs?" I was about to laugh, thinking his question ridiculous, but then I noticed Bumlets looking at me in expectation.

"My brain." I paused. "There's a lot going on in there; I just didn't want to let you in on it." 

They stared at me. Slowly, ever so slowly, grins crept onto their faces and they laughed. 

"Ya know, Specs?" Skittery said, companionably throwing an arm around my shoulder, which made me shiver pleasantly, "You're alright."

And as we walked the long walk to Tibby's, we talked, the three of us. And you know? It was just as comfortable as the contented silence we'd walked to Queens in. 

I'm thinking that maybe I could get used to this not-so-quiet thing. I like being quieted, observant. But this talking thing? It works too.

**_{EndNotes}_**

Ohhhh I love Specs. He gives me great joy. He's so ELOQUENT! And we'll be coming back to him, because look at the poor kid! He just can't figure himself out! He's slashy, yes….but then he's not sure, 'cause women fascinate him, and he doesn't wanna THINK about the possibility. Gah, I love him. He gives me great joy.

Look at that cleavage!

Glimm

-looks at her closer- hmm. Yeah. Keira Knightley. She. Is. Funny. Watch the commentary to Pirates of the Caribbean—the one with her….you'll understand the cleavage thing from that—I think she talks about cleavage about six times. Skittles, am I right? Maybe YOU should use that closer….-hides!-

Lovely, lovely Orlando….can I shag him, now Skittles? Please? Are you done with him, Leg, and Will yet? 


End file.
